A few months ago, I had to find the perfect couch for our living room. Any spare moment, I would whip out the ipad and search online. I made pinterest boards. I found other pieces of furniture that we just had to have. I was obsessed.
I was tired of our house looking like a bunch of college guys lived in it: mismatched, hand-me down chairs; ancient tables falling apart; the Kramer on the mantle (though I still think that is kinda fun). I am nearing 30. I have a child. I should have grown-up furniture.
There was a time when I didn’t care about furniture. When we rented our tiny duplex, the mismatched chairs were charming, the ancient table a family heirloom, the Kramer — just a kitschy piece of our personality. If I didn’t have the right curtains or the right piece of furniture there, I didn’t care. It wasn’t our forever home. What we had was good enough.
But as soon as we bought a house, what we had was suddenly not good enough anymore. I spent countless hours online and in Home Depot and Home Goods finding rugs and curtains and couches. I was a bit whiney and extremely agitated until we got the perfect rug or the right couch for upstairs. But it didn’t seem to end.
I was itching for more, until one day I realized that my house had taken over valuable real estate in my heart. I was so focused on prettying up my house that I had no room in my heart for others in need. I was the one who needed…another pillow cushion for the couch. I realized that Matthew 6:21 was right: “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” I didn’t want to be the kind of person whose heart was focused only on the material. My discontent was becoming all of me.
So I stopped searching on the internet. I started repurposing furniture we already had. I started to see our mismatched furniture as quirks of our personality. I started to be thankful for the fact that we have a house and furniture. Somewhere in all the blessings I was given, I had forgotten to be grateful.
I am grateful now. And ashamed — not for wanting a nice house with pretty things, but for allowing my house to own me instead of the other way around.